Final Goodbyes
by IzzyK97
Summary: Saying goodbye for the last time is always hard to bear. USUK and PruHun fic, rated T for character death.


**Two new fanfics in such a short space of time? What is this witchcraft? Written as part of a trade between me and Maia (she wrote SuFin, I wrote USUK and a dash of PruHun). As per the usual, I have no ownership over Hetalia.**

It all happened so fast. One moment they were walking along happily, ice-creams in their hands and Alfred laughing beside him, the next...

A crash of screeching metal, a hand torn out of his, laughter cut short. Ice-cream splattered across the wall and the car. Arthur stumbled to the wreckage, reached out and grabbed a pale, twitching hand. Breath rattling, head spinning, darkness clouded his vision. He fell to the ground.

White walls, white ceiling, white floor. Paramedics shouting in his ears, he tried to cling to the hand. Doctors forced him back.

_You can't go through, sir._

"_I can't leave him!"_

_Are you his brother?_

"_I'm his boyfriend!"_

The faces changed, more hostile now. Cold fingers dragged him to a room, sat him down, pushed coffee towards him. He didn't drink coffee; Alfred did. He downed it anyway, barely tasting the liquid. A doctor stopped in front of him, words buzzing in his ears. Critical condition... internal bleeding... comatose... might not wake up... More darkness. The coffee cup slipped from his grasp, hitting the floor, and he followed it.

3 hours later, Arthur was awake. Alfred was not. There he lay, pale and unmoving, hooked up to a machine that kept his lungs working. Arthur stood for a moment, before bursting into fits of tears. He screamed and sobbed and wailed, flinging himself to his knees and re-attaching himself to Alfred's hand. He clung to it desperately, knowing in his heart that Alfred could hear him. "Alfie..." he whimpered. "Al, please wake up. You have to wake up. We... we were planning to do so much! You were going to force me onto so many rollercoasters. We have a list of horror films to work through together!" He hung his head. "Dammit, you fool. Why can't you follow anything through to the end?!" There was no reply. There might never be again. No more cheerful laugh, or accent, or bastardised version of the English language that he had learned to love. No more getting up early to make tea, and ending up in a kitchen- based tickle war. No more- NO! Arthur shook his head. He mustn't think like that. Al was strong. He could fight through this. It would take more than this to bring down the hero... right?

That night, Arthur refused to leave. He was allowed to stay in the room, curled up under a blanket on an uncomfortable sofa. He laid there for a while, simply watching his love's chest rise and fall with forced breath. The soft, rhythmic beeping of machines lulled him into a semi-relaxed state, and he fell asleep, his breathing perfectly synchronised with Alfred's.

He was woken in the middle of the night by a sudden commotion. After checking that Al was still stable, Arthur poked his head out of the door. A woman was crouched in the middle of the hall cradling the mangled body of a young man. She was repeating a name over and over again like a mantra. "Gil... Gilbert, wake up! Gilbert!" A pair of doctors pried the body away from her, placing it on a trolley and wheeling it down the corridor. The woman tried to follow, long brown hair swinging wildly. A nurse draped a blanket around her shoulders and led her carefully away to a different room, leaving Arthur to his thoughts. He listened to the woman's sobs fade away, then turned and went back to the sofa. He curled up again, and drifted back into sleep.

***Gilbert Beilschmidt, 22, died 02/02/2013***

The news the next morning was not what he wanted.

"You can't turn them off! He might still wake up!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but the damage is too great. All we're doing is prolonging his death."

"But you can't! You... you can't do that..."

The nurse gave him a sympathetic smile, and left him to his misery.

They turned the life support off an hour later, and Arthur sat beside Alfred as the last of his breath began to fade. He sat for what seemed like an age in silence, when...

The hand in his twitched. He looked up in shock, and his eyes locked on a sliver of shining blue. Alfred looked up at him from the bed, bleary-eyed and weak. Arthur's heart leapt, and he turned to shout for a doctor... but then the hand went limp again, the sliver of blue dulled and glazed over, and Alfred's final breath left him as a gurgling sigh. Arthur's voice broke in his throat, and he let out a heartbroken wail.

***Alfred F. Jones, 21, died 03/02/2013***

The next few weeks passed in a blur of tears, pain, and alcohol. He didn't go home; he didn't think he could bear it. Instead he roamed the streets, visiting all the places he and Alfred used to frequent. With him always was one thing he had left of the old life; Al's grandfather's service revolver. It was old, handle worn smooth by years of use, and it still worked. Alfred had accidentally fired it once, blowing a large hole in his bedroom wall. It was this event that Arthur was thinking of now. He knew there was one bullet left in it, but what to do with it? It would be so simple to track down the person who had killed his lover, and kill him in return. So, so simple. But there was an alternative, an option that would reunite him with Alfred. That's what he would do. He cocked the pistol, and pressed it to his forehead. A woman rounded the corner, spotted him, and screamed at him to stop. He simply said "I'm coming, Alfie.", and pulled the trigger.

***Arthur Kirkland, 21, died 27/02/2013***

On the other side of the city, a woman was staring at a photo. A photo of her, Elizaveta, and her husband Gilbert. Their first anniversary had been so much fun, and they had had so many plans for more. Now he was gone, mown down by that stupid driver and his lorry. Her hands shook as another tear rolled down her face to join those already fallen. It was time. She stood and walked over to her balcony on the 14th floor. Climbing up onto the railings, she took one final glance at the photograph. "Goodbye, my love." She murmured. "Or perhaps... this is hello." She hugged the photo to her chest, and stepped out into empty space.

***Elizaveta H****éderváry, 20, died 27/02/2013***

**And thus ends my first proper feels-fic! Tell me what you think about it in a review (they're always welcome), and I'll see you next time I write something! *brofist***


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